


Y Spin

by songlin



Series: The Passion Connected Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Figure Skater John, Figure Skater Sherlock, Inappropriate Use of Skating Flexibility, M/M, Oral Sex, Winter Olympics, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: “Well, now,” John says, with a little smirk, “what’s stopping you?”Sherlock grimaces. “I wanted to wait until you medaled, but…” He makes a vague gesture with his hands.John takes Sherlock’s arms in his hands. “It’s the energy here,” he murmurs. “You can feel it too, can’t you? God, I wish…”Sherlock shakes his head, a tight, wordless negation. “Don’t. We’re here for you.”





	Y Spin

It’s been an hour, but the lights and the sounds are still ringing in John’s head. The brilliant shapes in the sky, the thrill of being surrounded by some of the best of the world, the thrill of being one of them! It’s almost enough to warm him up. PyeongChang is cold in February, and between lining up with the other American athletes and then standing outside in the frigid air, John spent quite a bit of time exposed to it. On the ice, he warms up quickly, but not so much in the open air.

He shuts the door of his room behind him and takes a moment to giggle, before clapping a hand over his mouth.

“How was it?” comes a voice from the darkness.

John rolls his eyes and flicks the light on. Dressed in a chic gray sweater and jeans and lounging on John’s bed is Sherlock Holmes, looking like a model. John feels like an idiot in the ridiculous Ralph Lauren opening ceremony getup, with the massive parka, sweater, boots, and utterly ludicrous suede fringed gloves.

“Didn’t you watch?” John says, as he strips his gloves and coat off and throws them towards the closet.

Sherlock shrugs indifferently. When he first met Sherlock Holmes nearly a year ago, John would have read this as a “no.” Experience has taught him that the closer interpretation is “I thought it was dull, but I watched it for you.” John smiles.

Sherlock rises from the bed and stalks towards John, and suddenly John’s mind goes to an entirely different place. “All I have been wanting to do for hours,” Sherlock purrs, “is get that costume onto the floor and have you, all to myself.”

He stops just shy of John, close enough for John to feel his breath.

“Well, now,” John says, with a little smirk, “what’s stopping you?”

Sherlock grimaces. “I wanted to wait until you medaled, but…” He makes a vague gesture with his hands.

John takes Sherlock’s arms in his hands. “It’s the energy here,” he murmurs. “You can feel it too, can’t you? God, I wish…”

Sherlock shakes his head, a tight, wordless negation. “Don’t. We’re here for you.”

“You deserve this,” John whispers. “To ride this high.”

Sherlock leans in, taking John by the waist. “So do you.”

John rubs his thumbs up and down over Sherlock’s arms. “I just can’t stop thinking about you. Four years ago, if you’d…”

“No,” Sherlock says. “These are your games.”

John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Let’s make them ours.”

Sherlock bites his lip. “I’ve never shared anything in my life.”

“I know, I’ve talked to the women they tried to put you with for pairs,” John says solemnly, and that makes Sherlock smile. “It’s just...if not for you turning up at that rink in Catawissa, I’d still be sharpening rental skates for birthday parties. You brought me back to life, Sherlock. More than that, even. You brought me to a whole new level of performance that I’d never dreamed was possible even before I got injured.”

“I was only shaping what was already there.”

“What I’m saying,” John says, “is whatever I accomplish at these games, it’s yours too. I want you to share it with me.”

He had more to say, but it is stopped on his lips by Sherlock pressing a kiss to them, insistent and tender. John lets his eyes drift shut and loses himself in the kiss. He lets Sherlock back him into the door and press the full length of his body to his. It hits him, all at once, for the hundredth time today: he’s at the Olympic Games, and the love of his life is by his side, and they’re going to make love in his room at the Olympic Games. He moans against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock shudders at the sound. All of a sudden the kiss is not slow and tender at all, it’s deep and longing and needy.

“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock breathes, and oh, yes, that is a good idea.

“Get me out of this absolutely tragic costume first,” John says.

The Timberland boots are the biggest problem. John tries to toe them off while kissing Sherlock and fails miserably. Eventually Sherlock gives up, kneels at John’s feet, and starts untying the laces.

“Fuck,” John says, looking off and to the side. “I can’t even look at you doing that without it doing things to me.”

“Why, John,” Sherlock says innocently, “you should’ve said. Lift.”

John lifts his foot and Sherlock tugs off the shoe. He also leans in and presses his mouth to the inside of John’s thigh, breathing through his jeans. John lets out a long, slow exhale.

“Put your foot down so I can do the other.”

“Do it.”

John closes his eyes and just lets his other senses fly – the sound of laces whispering through the eyelets, Sherlock’s hand lifting John’s leg so he can slide the other shoe off, and the warmth of Sherlock’s breath over the seam of John’s jeans.

“Sherlock,” John pleads.

And then Sherlock is pressing his mouth _directly_ against John’s gradually thickening erection, and he’s mouthing up and down the outline, and John can’t do anything but run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and groan.

“We can’t be too loud, Sherlock. Ah! The – the walls.”

Sherlock lifts his mouth away for a moment. “Then keep your voice down.” He reaches up and plucks John’s belt open, and then his fly, and then he’s tugging John’s jeans and underwear down and John’s cock is flexing free as John’s head drops back to knock against the door.

It’s just a kiss at the tip at first, which alone is enough to make John shiver. Then it’s a delicate tongue lapping at the sensitive skin, and a firm but gentle hand at the base to steady it, and finally his mouth, wrapping around John’s cock and sliding slowly back and forth over just the head, soft tonguing around the frenulum.

John slips under the ebb and flow of pleasure and allows himself to be lost in the sensation, in the dark curls under his fingers and the wet fucking sounds. He can’t be loud, but he can talk, right? Surely he can talk.

“Good,” he sighs, “that’s so good. Your mouth, Sherlock, it’s like nothing I’ve ever had before.”

Sherlock speeds up, takes him a little deeper.

“God, yeah, like that. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at you during practice and wanted to have you right there at the rink. Press you against the mirror in the off-ice training room and pound you until you can’t walk straight.”

Sherlock moans around his mouthful, and John can feel the vibration in his teeth.

“Can’t wait until I can tell everyone what you make me feel. When I win that gold medal, I’m pulling you out of your seat at the kiss and cry and we’re gonna show everyone why it’s named that way. Gonna show the whole world how much you mean to me.”

Sherlock is taking him deep now, and John is fighting not to fuck his mouth. He chances a look down and his eyes nearly roll back into his head at the sight–his cock nearly balls-deep in Sherlock’s mouth at its apex, and Sherlock–Sherlock with his own jeans undone and the hand that’s not steadying the base of John’s shaft working himself, and John realizes there’s something else he wants.

He ruffles a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Hold on, wait.”

Sherlock pulls off with a wet pop and an endearing outraged noise. “John,” he says, sounding adorably put out.

John pets gently at Sherlock’s head. “I want to fuck you,” he says. “Let’s get naked and on the bed.”

“Capital idea,” Sherlock says, still looking slightly rumbled and well-fucked.

John pulls Sherlock up to his feet and kisses him again. There’s some complicated choreography where they’re each pulling each other’s jeans and underwear down and stepping out of their own, and then they do have to step apart to strip off their sweaters. Finally, gloriously, they are naked, and John is crowding Sherlock into the bed.

“Oh, fuck,” John says. “I haven’t got anything.”

“Bedside drawer,” Sherlock says smugly.

“You’re brilliant,” John says, rummaging around in the drawer.

By the time he comes up with the tube of lube, Sherlock has drawn his legs up and is gently squeezing his cock again.

“Stop that,” John says sternly.

Sherlock pouts. “You were busy.”

“I was getting ready to fuck you, you ass.”

“You’d best get on with it, then, haven’t you?”

John squeezes a generous bead of lube onto his finger. Sherlock’s breathing speeds up.

“Easy, darling,” John says, and eases one finger in.

Sherlock’s breathing immediately evens out, as if he’s relieved. His head falls back on the pillows. John laughs.

“I can’t believe I was ever afraid you were a top.”

Sherlock blushes. “Shut up!”

But then John is working another finger in, because Sherlock is that easy to work open, and Sherlock isn’t saying much anymore. John’s cock throbs. He gives it a gentle little squeeze. Soon, buddy.

Sherlock’s hands appear unmoored, drifting over the sheets as if he doesn’t know where to put them. John takes one and places it on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock takes the hint and rubs his hand down over his ribcage, up again, his palm over his nipple, and then his fingers plucking at it, pinching and rubbing.

“Love watching you make yourself feel good, babe,” John says. “Can you jerk yourself off without coming too soon?”

Sherlock grimaces and shakes his head.

“Jesus, that’s almost as hot. Keep at it, then.”

John tries not to think about how hot and tight it is around his fingers as he pushes a third in, and how much hotter and tighter it’ll be around his dick. Sherlock’s other hand is around his knee, pulling his leg up and back to open himself up for him, and really, that is about it.

“That good for you?” John asks.

“Very good,” Sherlock rumbles, in that sinfully deep baritone.

“Right, then, I’m fucking you now.”

He pulls his hand out and wipes lube over his cock, then lines up against Sherlock’s entrance.

“Do it,” Sherlock urges. “I want it, I want you. Oh!”

In one shocking push, John thrusts in. Sherlock’s back arches as if he’s trying to ride his whole body down further onto John, to take more. John leans over Sherlock on all fours and tries to get his breath back.

“Darling. Oh, my gorgeous man.”

Sherlock reaches up, cups John’s face, and brings it down to his to kiss him, just as he hitches his hips in the effort to make John do it, please, finally, do it. John, who wants nothing more than to give Sherlock exactly what he wants, does it.

His world narrows to the feeling between his legs, the almost unbelievably perfect pressure, the heat. Below him, Sherlock is groaning with every thrust in a way that makes John want to fuck him more, and harder, and deeper.

Sherlock is pulling both legs back until his knees are all the way up to his chest, and he’s still unsatisfied. “Push my leg up,” he says breathlessly.

John leans back unto his knees, takes Sherlock’s calf in his hand, and pushes his leg up to a ninety degree angle. “Like this?”

“More,” Sherlock demands.

John pushes it further back, and further back, until it’s all the way back. “Jesus,” he breathes.

“My former coaches would be appalled at this particular usage of my Y spin position,” Sherlock says with a smirk.

“I appreciate it,” John says sincerely, and goes about fucking Sherlock properly.

With Sherlock’s leg so high up, John _can_ get more, and harder, and deeper, and boy, does he ever. Sherlock is openly crying out now with every thrust in. John wants to remind him of the thin walls, but he wants that noise so badly that he can’t bring himself to.

“Touch yourself,” he tells him.

“Oh thank God please yes oh my God,” Sherlock says all in a rush, and takes himself in hand.

Immediately John can feel Sherlock’s body tensing in a way he knows well by now, and he knows he has to take his pleasure now. He grits his teeth and fucks him faster, his grip on Sherlock’s leg tightening and tightening until finally–

John comes with a glorious shout, Sherlock’s body wringing pulse after pulse of pleasure from him. He throws his head back and surrenders to it. Beneath him, he feels Sherlock’s leg kick back and his body start convulsing around him as he stripes come up over his stomach.

Gradually, the ringing in John’s ears subsides, and he slumps forward and off to the side. He throws one arm over Sherlock’s chest and discovers that it’s shaking with laughter.

“And what, exactly, is so funny, you dick?” John says.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, wiping his eyes. “Just...so much for keeping it down.”

“It’s the Olympics. Half the athletes’ village has company tonight.”

“I’m the luckiest, though,” Sherlock says. “Because I just fucked an Olympic gold medalist.”

“Quiet. You’re going to jinx me.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock insists. “I am speaking it into existence.”

“Speak it into existence tomorrow,” John says with a yawn. “We’ve got practice tomorrow at 7AM.”

“You’re right. We have to work on your quad lutz if you’re going to land it in both programs.”

John pulls the comforter up over the both of them and moves in close. “Yes. We do.”


End file.
